


l'appel du vide

by untouchableocean



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Jules, Suicidal Thoughts, UHHHHHHHH i have no excuse for this, like not by name but it's Charles Trauma Hours babey, set post germany 2019, there's like one mention of past sex but not enough to warrant a mature tag i feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 19:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20140963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/pseuds/untouchableocean
Summary: Max knows three things right now: it’s dark, it’s late, and he has no idea where Charles is.





	l'appel du vide

**Author's Note:**

> this took SEVERAL sprints on the discord to write lkjhgfdsgfdhjk anyway as said in the notes tw for suicidal thoughts and jules angst

Max knows three things right now: it’s dark, it’s late, and he has no idea where Charles is. On the face of it, there are actually two things he knows and one he doesn’t, but he’s not really bothered with the technicalities of language at the moment because his phone battery is depleting at a rapid rate and he’s really starting to worry. He’d called him and got no answer, and his flat door was unlocked. It was all rather troubling.

He hadn’t meant to catch feelings for Charles, but how could he not? It had started after Bahrain, after Charles’ mess of a race. They’d bumped into each other in the hotel lift afterwards, just the two of them. He’d felt bad for him, seeing him hunched over against the wall, staring at his feet. His eyes were glassy and wet when he looked up, and while he’d attempted a feeble smile, it hadn’t convinced Max.

Reaching out had felt like…the right thing to do. It wasn’t pity, it was something further than that. An understanding of where he was, the feeling of having everything fucked away by something completely out of his control. He knew he’d probably heard the _it’s not your fault, don’t be upset _spiel about a million times, and he knew how sick it made him.

He placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder and offered a sympathetic smile, praying that it didn’t come off as condescending. Charles smiled back, and when the lift stopped at Max’s floor, neither of them moved for such a long time the doors actually ended up starting to close and Max had to hurriedly put his body in the sensor to stop them shutting fully.

They’d ended up in Max’s hotel room, Max pressing Charles into expensive sheets, kissing down his throat, his chest, leaving no part of his body untouched as he helped him forget everything that had happened that day. Charles had told him later, much later, that was his first time, and Max felt a twinge of guilt, although he didn’t quite know why.

A loud buzzing brings him back to the present, and he looks at his phone to see that Pierre has _finally_ responded to his messages. After a few missed calls he realised Charles wasn’t going to respond, so he turned to someone who knew him better. All it took was about 23 increasingly panicked texts which he would deny later.

>he might be here, he used to go here sometimes when he wants to be alone

>you didn’t need to text me 23 times asshole i was busy!

you’re never busy<

>i have a girlfriend

lol *boyfriend<

>fuck off

He opens the google maps link Pierre linked beforehand and a quick detective search leads him to a pier, tucked away behind a cliff, away from all the hustle and bustle of the harbour. _Must be a private dock, _Max thinks to himself as he makes his way down the steps. The moonlight is shining down, illuminating Charles’ sorry figure sitting on the end of the pier.

The sight of Charles would have been a relief if the acidic taste of anxiety hadn’t already taken root in Max’s mouth. Max wanders down to sit beside Charles, dangling his legs off the edge and looking into the deep water below. The decking is old and dirty, and Max makes a mental note to clean these shorts later.

He places a hand on Charles’ shoulder and he stiffens for a moment, almost as though he hadn’t noticed Max sit down. Max looks at him with a worried expression, but Charles keeps staring down into the abyss below, his eyes unreadable in the moonlight.

“Charles.”

No response.

“Charles…”

Silence.

“Charles!”

He raises his voice slightly and Charles jumps and finally looks at him, and Max can tell he’s been crying. His eyes are shot to hell, and his face is red and blotchy. There are faint tear stains on his cheeks, but they’ve long since dried up in the unseasonable night air.

“Are you okay? I was worried about you.”

Charles hums and turns back to the ocean, and Max notices his hands are gripping the decking so hard his knuckles have turned white.

“I’m fine, I just wasn’t expecting anyone to look for me.” He looks over sadly, and his doe eyes wring Max’s heart. “Sorry. How did you know I wasn’t home?”

Max blushes a little and rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

“You didn’t respond to my calls, so…I went to your flat.” Charles looks at him with a deadpan expression. “I wanted to make sure you were okay man, it was a nasty hit.”

“Yeah, it was.”

There’s a hint of annoyance in Charles’ tone and Max wants to push him, keep riling him up until he can let his anger out, but there’s something stopping him today. There’s something in the air, the stench of pain, an ache that Max somehow both understands and can’t even begin to comprehend.

“I’m sorry.”

“Spare me.” Charles practically spits the words out, a frustration long buried bubbling to the top. “You fucking reek of champagne, you could have at least showered.”

Max opens his mouth and closes it again, any sarky retorts his brain can conjure up dying in his throat. Charles’ expression softens and he looks away guiltily.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Max sighs and places his hand behind Charles’ back. He can practically hear Charles’ mind working, cogs whirring and grinding as he tries to think of what to say next. Max sometimes wishes he could think like that, but Charles always tells him it’s a curse. Max doesn’t remember the last time he _really_ thought about anything.

Suddenly, Charles lifts his head and looks to the sky, his short hair seeming to bounce in the dim light.

“Do you ever feel like it’s all pointless?”

Max blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“Just, this. All of this.” Charles gestures vaguely in the air, out towards the glittering lights of Monte Carlo. “If I can’t win, then what’s the point? I mean, look at you, you’ve already got two wins this season in a fucking Honda and I can barely scrape second in a Ferrari. I might as well just give up now because I’m fucking shit.”

He rubs his face in his hands and looks down at the water again. Max hums and gently strokes Charles’ knee.

“You’re not shit, it’s not your fault that Ferrari haven’t given you a good enough car. You shouldn’t give up just because of that. Anyway, with your contract, I don’t think you can.”

Charles laughs humourlessly and closes his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Oh.

Charles looks down back into the dark ocean and opens his eyes, and Max’s grip on his thigh tightens slightly, a warning.

“I wonder what it’s like, you know.” He takes in a shaky breath and smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. “Dying.”

“Charles, don’t.”

“Why not?” His tone is sharp, and Max feels its sting like a slap to the face. _Or a punch to the chest, _his brain not-so-helpfully thinks. “It’s true, so why keep it hidden? What’s the point when there’s no point to anything anyway?”

Max doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he can respond, because if he does then he’ll probably say the wrong thing. He’s not even sure there’s a right thing to say to that.

Charles sniffles and Max is pretty sure he’s holding back another wave of tears. Max brings his hand up from Charles’ thigh and tentatively wraps his arm around his shoulder, pulling him incrementally closer, and Charles goes rigid but doesn’t resist. They sit there in silence for a long time, Max entirely wordless and Charles unable to carry on until he finally speaks, barely louder than a whisper.

“Where do you think we go?” He leans over and rests his head on Max’s shoulder. “When we die?”

Max tilts his head against Charles’, their breathing somewhat synchronising as they lean into each other. He doesn’t like to think about that kind of thing. He’d heard someone say once that if any of the drivers thought about what they were doing, really thought about what would happen if they hit a tree at over two hundred miles an hour, they’d retire on the spot. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t. But he didn’t want to find out.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I get it.”

“No you don’t.”

Charles looks up at Max, and Max suddenly feels a sense of unease wash over him. Charles’ eyes should be filled with stars, but they’re old and full of ghosts; they’ve seen things far beyond his years, and it makes Max feel out of place, an intruder in the creaking halls of his mind.

“You think you do, but you don’t, and you never will.”

They fall back into silence, staring out across the dark water towards the horizon. Max doesn’t know how late it is now, but he doesn’t want to pull out his phone. He feels like it would shatter the glass bubble that’s engulfed them, bringing them out of this strange, hazy dream world that they’ve created, away from the lights and the sounds and the reality of the life they lead.

“I see them,” Charles whimpers, voice cracked from smothered sobs. “I see them everywhere.”

Max tightens his hold on Charles’ shoulder, trying his best not to fall apart himself. Charles lets out a long, anguished wail that tears Max’s chest in two before going limp in Max’s arms, still sobbing, and Max ends up shuffling them both backwards so that they’re safely away from the edge of the pier.

Charles cries himself out in Max’s arms and he wants to believe he feels his grief seeping into his chest and taking root there, but he knows it’s just bouncing off his skin back onto Charles.

“It should have been me.”

Max almost didn’t hear it, a soft whisper through the slew of tears. He pulls Charles up by his shoulders and shakes him gently until he opens his eyes, staring back at Max with a broken expression.

“Don’t fucking say that.” Charles’ lip trembles as Max speaks and he grits his teeth in an attempt to stop the tears from starting again. “It shouldn’t have even been him, so don’t say shit like that!”

Charles breaks again, clinging to Max and swaying with him, practically in his lap by now. Max holds him close and rocks him gently as the agony builds and builds, leaving Charles convulsing in a shaking wreck. After what seems like both far too long and not long enough he runs out of tears, just stays there, quivering in Max’s arms.

When Max finally pulls him up it’s gone midnight. Neither of them should be out this late and they know it, but Charles is too tired to walk, too tired to move at all. Max hooks his arm under Charles’ shoulder and supports his weight as they stumble back to Charles’ flat, Max locking the door behind them and dropping Charles softly on the bed.

He helps Charles out of his clothes and strips down to his boxers before slipping under the covers, waiting until Charles rolls over and curls himself into his body, his low breathing leaving warm patches on Max’s skin. Charles clutches himself to Max, his nails digging into Max’s chest a little but he doesn’t mind.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

There’s more silence then, and Max thinks Charles has settled in to sleep when he suddenly speaks again.

“I threw my phone in the sea.”

Max can’t help but snort.

“You fucking what?”

“Earlier, I got so annoyed that you wouldn’t stop messaging me I threw my phone in the sea.”

Max laughs and can’t fathom a response, so he just kisses Charles’ head and lets him drift off to sleep. Max ends up lying awake for the rest of the night, hugging Charles closer as he kicks and whines in his sleep, the occasional tear dropping onto Max’s bare chest and melting through like acid. Charles is right; he doesn’t get it. And he hopes he never will.

**Author's Note:**

> the quote max is referencing is from the film grand prix: "I think if any of us imagined - really imagined - what it would be like to go into a tree at 150 miles per hour we would probably never get into the cars at all, none of us. So it has always seemed to me that to do something very dangerous requires a certain absence of imagination."  
in the film, jean-pierre sarti says this, but allegedly in real life somebody else did. i don't recall who, sadly. anyway.


End file.
